Chapter 8: Children of Calamity

Beyond the door lay a world that could not be measured.

Green stretched endlessly—not the obedient green of tilled land or fenced meadows, but a living expanse that moved according to no will but its own.

The grass rose and fell like a silent tide, as though the earth itself were breathing.

Above it all spread a sky so blue it felt unreal.

A sky untouched by clouds, as though weather itself had been deemed unnecessary.

I stepped forward.

The wind met me like an old storyteller, brushing past as if to ask whether I had come merely to look—or to remember.

High above, a six-winged dragon traced lazy circles through the heavens.

Its shadow passed over the land again and again, briefly eclipsing the sun.

Each beat of its wings arrived moments later as pressure, rippling through the grass and tugging at my clothes.

The creature bore no vigilance, no hunger.

It ruled the sky not because it wished to—but because nothing contested it.

My gaze wandered.

One of the trees bore something that did not belong to bark or leaf: a cocoon woven entirely from wings.

Feathers layered upon feathers like scales, each shimmering faintly, catching light that did not exist a moment before.

It pulsed—slow, patient—as though whatever slept within had no reason to hurry.

Further away, books rose into the air, not arranged, not archived.

Pages, tomes, loose sheets, and half-written manuscripts spiralled upward around a seated figure.

Ink shimmered mid-air as words wrote themselves.

And further still—

A void.

A hollow in reality that devoured colour, sound, even intent. At its centre lingered a presence I did not look at directly—not out of fear, but out of courtesy.

I exhaled.

“So that’s why,” I murmured.

Vanon stood beside me, hands folded behind his back, his expression calm in the way of someone who had long ago exhausted his awe.

“No one tells the story,” I said softly.

“And anyone who leaves… doesn’t remember to tell.”

He inclined his head once.

“It is easier to see the impossible,” he replied, “than to explain it.”

I understood then.

This was not caretaking in any gentle sense of the word.

It was babysitting calamities.

—--

In this world—no, in this game's universe—there were familiar roles.

Demon lords to be slain. Heroes to be exalted. Kings anointed by fate, tyrants cursed by it. Empires to rule.

But beyond them existed beings that belonged neither to victory nor ruin.

Depending on the progression you made, they were allies or otherwise boss monsters you must defeat.

The explaination was when a concept—war, mercy, extinction, salvation—generated more karmic residue than the world or its gods could absorb, it did not fade.

It accumulated.

It condensed.

And eventually, it came to live.

Those born from such a phenomena were called children of Calamity.

They were not evil. Nor virtuous. They simply were—walking embodiments of ideas that had overflowed their vessel.

At birth alone, they could erase cities if left uncontained.

And yet some were born from benevolent concepts—hope, continuity, preservation—existences that, under different circumstances, might have saved humanity rather than doomed it.

Their tragedy was not what they were.

It was that the world had no place for them.

“They are immortal,” Vanon said, his voice even. “They do not die by blade or spell. Only when their conceptual time reaches its end.”

“So you lock them away,” I said.

“It's the other way around, we act as a shelter for them,” he corrected gently.

“And shelter the world from them.”

I glanced sideways at him.

And then I probed—quietly—with the [All-Seeing Eyes of the Gods].

The result surfaced at once.

Seven stars.

In this world, mages ascended from the first star—those barely capable of structured casting—to the thirteenth, where transcended archmages bent laws instead of obeying them.

Seven stars made Vanon formidable.

But not this formidable.

“This pocket world,” I said slowly, “isn’t yours.”

“No,” he answered without hesitation.

I nodded. “Thought so.”

Only an archmage—or something beyond that could sustain a space like this.

Not merely a pocket dimension, but a conceptual level enclosure stable enough to house them.

“Your master ?,” I said.

“Yes.”

“She gathered them,” I continued. “Not as trophies.”

Vanon looked toward the horizon, where the dragon wheeled lazily through the sky.

“As possibilities,” he said.

“She believed,” he went on, “that most caretakers fail not because they are weak, but because they misunderstand neutrality. Some see the children as threats and keep their distance. Others see them as sacred and refuse to interfere.”

“And both abandon them,” I said.

“Yes.”

He turned to me then.

“Fear creates distance. Reverence creates neglect. In a place like this, either is fatal.”

The archmage who created this world had believed in something quietly absurd.

A place where children of calamity could live.

Even if such a world never came to pass, she wanted to see what would happen if someone tried.

I wondered, briefly, why Vanon himself did not take on the role.

Then dismissed the thought.

I was here for the money.

Besides—

I glanced once more at the dragon, the cocoon, the tower of books, the void.

As far as I remembered, none of them ever touched the main story.

Which meant one thing.

They were safe.

I released a quiet breath and reached my decision.

“I’ll sign,” I said. “Two months.”

Vanon looked at me, surprise flickering briefly across his features.

“Only two?”

“If I hate it, I leave,” I replied evenly. “If I don’t… we’ll talk again.”

He studied me for a long moment.

Then, slowly, he smiled.

“Very well,” he said. “Welcome, Leon.”

I turned back toward the impossible world and sighed.

“…Guess I really did find a retirement job.”

After the final line was signed and the contract acknowledged, the parchment dissolved into motes of pale light.

Before Vanon could speak, I raised a hand.

“There is a condition I would like to add,” I said. “On my side.”

He regarded me calmly, neither wary nor impatient.

“I can’t open the door myself even if you give me a key,” I continued.

“I happen to carry a unique restriction that happens to make me unable to wield artefacts at all. When my work here ends for the day, I’ll need you to open the passage.”

Vanon considered this only briefly before nodding.

“That can be arranged.”

Good. I hadn’t expected resistance.

People who lived around impossibilities learned quickly which questions were worth asking—and which weren’t.

“Then,” I said, “how long do you expect me to teach them?”

“Six hours,” he replied. “Any longer becomes counterproductive.”

I imagined that was a polite way of saying dangerous.

“Fine,” I said. “We’ll start there.”

We exchanged no farewells. None were needed. Vanon stepped aside, gestured toward the door, and I passed through.

The moment I crossed the threshold, it vanished behind me—no sound, no residue—leaving only grass beneath my feet and a sky too blue to belong to chance.

I didn’t move.

Instead, I sat down.

The grass bent beneath my weight, cool and springy, each blade detailed enough to catch light differently.

Wind brushed past my skin with a familiarity that unsettled me more than any monster could have.

This world was vivid.

For a moment, I wondered whether it was more real than the one I had left behind.

There was no need to approach them.

Curiosity was a stronger force than duty.

A foreign presence—singular, finite, human—was enough. They would come. And how they came would tell me more than any report Vanon could provide.

So I waited.

An hour passed.

The sky shifted subtly. The six-winged dragon that had ruled it earlier was gone, leaving behind a silence that felt heavier for its absence.

Then—

Movement.

From the tall grass emerged a figure, unhurried, unconcerned with stealth.

Golden hair fell freely down his back, catching the light like molten metal.

Four long dragon horns curved elegantly from his head.

His eyes were red, not sharp or cruel, but clear.

He wore clothes closer to sleepwear than armour.

He stopped a few steps away and stared at me.

“…Who are you?” he asked.

There was no hostility in his voice. Only curiosity.

I leaned back on my hands.

“Leon,” I replied lazily. “Your new caretaker.”

He blinked.

Once.

Then frowned.

“That’s strange.”

“Is it?”

He tilted his head slightly, studying me in earnest now.

“The others,” he said slowly, “they always look at us the same way.”

“Oh?” I prompted.

“Like gods,” he continued. “Or disasters. Sometimes like treasure. Sometimes like death.”

His brows furrowed. “Fear. Awe. Desire. Hatred.”

His gaze sharpened.

“But you don’t have that.”

I smiled faintly.

He squinted, as if tasting something unfamiliar.

“There is… a little greed,” he muttered.

“But not toward us. That makes no sense.”

“Greed’s healthy,” I said. “Keeps people honest.”

He stared at me as though I’d just spoken heresy.

“This is strange,” he repeated, quieter this time. “Very strange.”

Good. Confusion meant expectations were already broken.

I sat up and dusted grass from my clothes.

“Well,” I said, meeting his eyes, “if I’m going to get along with you all, we might as well start properly.”

He stiffened slightly. “Properly?”

“Yes.” I stood. “My way.”

His posture grew cautious.

“…And what is that?”

I looked at him, then past him—toward the distant cocoon, the tower of books, the silent void.

Then back at him again.

“I fight you.”

Silence.

The boy froze.

“…What?”

“A spar,” I clarified. “No killing. Just a fight.”

His expression cracked.

For the first time since he’d appeared, genuine disbelief surfaced.

“You’re… our caretaker.”

“Correct.”

“You’re supposed to teach us.”

“Also correct.”

He stared at me as though reassessing whether I was sane.

“…You’re not normal,” he finally said.

I shrugged.

“Neither are you.”

Something shifted in his eyes—not anger, not excitement.

Interest.

And somewhere in the grass, far beyond our little clearing, I felt attention stir.

Curiosity had spread.

And that, I thought, was a far better beginning than reverence ever could be.

Born from the concept of Monster, the boy had never known childhood.

He was not shaped by lineage or blood, but by accumulation—by the countless fears that crawled through the dark corners of the world and learned to breathe.

Every fang that tore flesh, every roar that shattered courage, every shadow that made mankind look back over its shoulder had left an echo.

Those echoes gathered. They pressed upon one another.

And from that weight, he was born.

He was the son of all monsters.

Not by conquest, but by right.

His authority was instinctual. To embody any beast that had ever walked, flown, or crawled across ruin was as natural as breathing.

And so, when he wished to stand at the summit, he chose the form that ruled above all.

The sky had always known dominance better than the land.

Dragons did not hunt. They reigned.

This was why, after choosing the apex of all, even now, arrogance came easily to him.

Then that arrogance was once shatttered when a woman managed to defeat him sealing him in this world.

So he came to understand at once.

That just she was far beyond anything else to be human.

However he refused to acknowledge humans as the stronger ones so he learned to embody the strongest dragon of them all.

The new presence now reminded him of her.

Still, on the contrary she wasn't her ,she had a weakness.

He could see it.

He asked again, more out of formality than doubt.

“Are you serious?”

Her answer did not change.

“Yes.”

How curious.

Then, without ceremony, his arm began to twist.

Bone lengthened. Flesh warped. Scales blossomed outward like forged plates, crimson and black overlapping as a colossal draconian limb replaced what had once been a boy’s arm.

The air groaned beneath the pressure of its existence.

“If that is what you wish,” he said calmly, “then receive it.”

He did not understand why she had challenged him.

But he hoped—dimly—that he would not be blamed for indulging her foolishness.

The arm descended.

Not hastily. Not sloppily.

It came down with intent, covering a wide radius, sealing every path of retreat.

A strike designed not merely to hit, but to end the exchange before it began. Power without hesitation.

It was the way monsters had always survived.

Yet—

When he lifted his arm again, something was wrong.

The ground was shattered. The grass was gone. The land itself bore the mark of his descent.